


Help Me Find The Right Way Up

by Saoirse_Laochra



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Avengers (2012), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3111422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saoirse_Laochra/pseuds/Saoirse_Laochra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton had scars -physical and mental- when Phil Coulson finds him at Attica State Penitentiary, and makes him an offer. An offer that -to be honest- Clint really is no position to refuse.</p><p>Warnings for graphic mentions of past child abuse, past child sexual abuse, violence, forced drug use, PTSD, language and all around general angst. No pairings as of yet, other than basic friendship. Might change, might not.</p><p>Chapters are in the process of being edited, and redone. As of right now, chapters 1-3 are completely redone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Standing In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> *I've kept the original notes and whatnot, but I'm redoing/editing this entire story, for continuity errors, and the like. So you might want to glance over it again. I will mark each chapter that has been redone.*
> 
>  
> 
> So this is the first chapter... Wanted to see if I got any responses; if people like it, I'll continue, and I already have the first few chapters written up.
> 
> Again, I must stress that this will have graphic MENTIONS of past child abuse, and past child sexual abuse, as well as other atrocities committed against children. There won't be any 'scenes' of it taking place, but there will be people talking about what happened. So if that bothers you, or triggers anything, please read no further.
> 
> Actually, interestingly enough, the inspiration for this was a meme picture I found online that showed a picture of Clint and Natasha, and had Natasha pointing at Clint saying, "Remember, if we get caught, you're deaf, and I don't speak English." Yeah, kind of weird how this came from that but... there you have it.
> 
> Anyways, like I said, this will be a dark story, but good ol' Phil will be there to put the pieces of our favorite archer back together again. This is my first story posted on here, so I apologize for any errors, or things I goof up for tags, or the like.
> 
> This chapter -again- is just an intro. Nothing to angsty, or anything here.

“You sure about this, Coulson?”

Phil Coulson glanced over at Director Fury, and nodded. “Of course, sir.” Almost before he’d finished speaking, prison alarms started blaring, and the sounds of yelling was dimly audible in the small room. At Fury’s raised eyebrow, Coulson shrugged. “Mostly sure.”

They’d been sitting in the small room, meant for conjugal visits, for about 25 minutes, waiting for Prisoner 11290 to be brought in, after a nearly two and a half check-in process. Their S.H.I.E.L.D. paperwork hadn’t impressed the warden, and Phil was almost positive the man had dragged the process out just to spite them. But, in his defense, the Attica Correctional Facility -one of the country’s oldest super-maxes -had a reputation as an inescapable prison for a reason; he couldn’t fault their security efforts, really.

But the wait had done nothing to improve the Director’s mood, and he was doing an excellent job at looking equal parts bored, and pissed, as he looked around the small room.

“How old did you say this kid was?” He asked, barely hidden disgust evident as he looked at the stained, ratty mattress in one corner.

“Twenty-one, as near as we can estimate, sir.”

“And…?”

“And I think he could be one of the best field agents we’ve seen in a long time, sir. His IQ is off the charts, his vision is nearly mutant level, and his marksmanship skills are the best we’ve seen in fifteen years. Some of our best snipers admitted they didn’t know if they could’ve pulled off a few of the shots he made.”

“Which leads into…”

Phil sighed, settling into one of the chairs at the table. “He currently has sixteen confirmed hits to his name, and he’s suspected in at least two dozen more. Including six high ranking government officials in…” He glanced down at the folder in his lap, although he knew the information by heart. “Russia, India, China, Pakistan, and two here in the states. He seems to have issues with bureaucrats.”

Fury grunted, folding his arms across his chest. “Makes me like him a bit better, I suppose. Psych evals?”

As Phil opened his mouth to respond, the large metal door swung open, revealing four armed guards, and -presumably -the man they’d come to see dragged between them.

Phil had to admit, at first glance, he was a bit disappointed. The… well, if he was being honest, calling him a ‘man’ was a stretch, he still looked like a teenage boy, was absolutely plain. Nothing unique about him, nothing that stood out. Dirty blond hair that hung over into his face, a bit shorter than average, with broad shoulders, and the well-definied prison muscles wouldn’t have separated him from any of the other inmates, other than maybe his age.

But his cold blue eyes were filled with the promise of violence that belied his years, Phil thought idly, watching as the guards attached his shackles to the table.

“Thanks for the lift, boys. Been a lovely ride,” The young man said, his voice scratchy.

The guards ignored him, and one stepped around the table towards Phil.

“Just to reiterate: There is _no_ physical contact with the prisoner, under any condition. He is not to be handed anything, including pens, pencils, paper, paperclips, staples, and so on. His chains are not to be removed for _any_ reason, except by myself, or the warden. Do you understand, and agree to these rules?”

Fury glared, and opened his mouth, but Phil jumped in to save the poor guard. “Of course, gentlemen. No problem at all. We’ll call when we’re finished. Thank you.”

With a curt nod, the guards left, and Phil scooted his chair closer to the table.

“Clint Barton?”

The young man nodded, almost lazily, bringing his hand up, and his head down, wiping at the blood running down from his split lip as best he could in his shackles. “That’d be me. What do you want? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, if you and Chuckles over there are lookin’ for a threesome, you’re gonna be in for a hell of a surprise.”

Phil smiled as pleasantly as he could. “My name is Phil Coulson, and this is Director Fury. We work for an organization called the Strategic Homeland –“

“Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Yeah. I’ve heard of you before. You almost got me in Beirut a few years ago.”

“ ’89,” Phil supplied. “And in Tehran the year before that.”

Barton leaned forward, giving him a cock-sure smile. “You were nowhere near me in Tehran. To be honest, I was insulted. Your agents spent the whole time stumbling around the market, trying to blend in. And putting a Korean woman in a burka? Seriously?” Leaning back, he shrugged again. “Hell, I was half-drunk most of that op, and your guys still couldn’t get close.”

Phil smiled amicably, setting the folder on the table in front of him. “In our defense, we were still testing the waters, so to speak. You’d only just hit our radar, and we sent a level 2 team to gather intel. But we rectified that in Beirut. How _did_ you survive that fall, by the way? Agent May was _very_ upset.”

“Trade secret. If it makes her feel any better, I ended up with seven different pins from that; three in my arm, and four in my leg. I was down for almost three months.”

Phil nodded. “I’ll be sure to let Agent May know. She’ll appreciate that you didn’t get away unscathed. That was one of the few failed missions she’s ever had.”

“I believe it. That chick was intense. She wouldda kicked my ass if I hadn’t jumped, I’ll admit that much. But enough catching up… Why are you here? Angry that the CIA got to me first?”

Phil shook his head. “Of course not. We’re all on the same team. As a professional courtesy though… Just how the hell did a bunch of untrained, bumbling monkeys like the CIA catch you?”

Barton chuckled. “Sheer numbers. I was camping in a cabin in the middle of Mt. Nowhere, West Virginia. Assholes snuck up on me while I was sleeping. Thirty six men, twelve riot dogs, and two helicopters kinda sealed the deal.”

“Still. Seems very sloppy for someone as meticulous on ops as you are,” Phil said, keeping his voice carefully neutral as he watched the look of interest on the director’s face. He’d moved to the side of the table, in what must have been just inside Barton’s peripheral vision. “That can’t look too good on your resume.”

“Can you hear me, Barton? You can’t, can you?” Fury asked, his voice only slightly lower than normal. “You little shit, you’re deaf, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, my reputation will be restored once I escape the inescapable Attica. Hell, it might even improve it,” Barton said, as if Fury hadn’t spoken.

“Amazing. All that work. Evading our best agents, and some of the best hired killers in the damn world. Sneaking into some of the most secure locations… And you’re deaf as a Goddamn post,” Fury said with a small chuckle, before motioning for Phil to keep Barton talking.

But almost instantly, Barton swung his head in Fury’s direction, putting the director immediately in his line of sight. “What the hell’re you doing, Chuckles?” He demanded.

“Proving something,” Fury said, giving the young man a grin as he sat down in a chair, and pulled it closer to Barton. “So how’d you do it, exactly? Becoming one of the best marsmen in the world, developing a name for yourself while most kids are pickling their livers in college… all while deaf as a doornail?”

Barton froze, the smile and cocky attitude sliding away as Fury continued speaking.

“Hearing aids, I’d guess. Pay a doc, get you something better than average. Not like you didn’t have the money for it. You made, what… A mil and a half for that job in Moscow? Wouldn’t have been that hard; ain’t like they’re that complicated to make. But you gotta take ‘em out sometime. That’s how they got you, isn’t it? You took ‘em out, figuring you were safe in your little backwater cabin. Couldn’t even hear half the Goddamn army knocking on your front door. What’re you at? Seventy percent loss?”

“Eighty,” Barton said through gritted teeth. “What gave it away?”

“Your story, for one. You were either drunk, deaf, or dumb to have missed that many CIA assholes marchin’ through the woods. Obviously not drugs; you’re too sharp for that. Drunk was a real possibility though. Could’ve bought that, but it was the way you never looked away from Coulson face. And I read through your history here. Some of the guards have noticed that you go back and forth between ignoring them, and being friendly. I mean, sure, you could’ve just been an obnoxious little shit, but if you put it all together…” Fury finished with a shrug.

“Grats, Chuckles. You figured it out. Now get to the fuckin’ point, or get out.”

Phil studied the young man intently. There was no trace of the devil-may-care attitude, having been replaced by a whole other creature sitting across from him. One that radiated barely contained violence, tense as a bowstring, ready to snap.

 “We’re here to offer you a job, Mr. Barton,” Phil said quickly, careful not to change the tone of his voice in any way as the young man glared. There was no reason to add insult to injury.

“Why the fuck would you offer me a damn job?” The young man demanded, his fists clenching and unclenching on the metal table.

“Because you’re good. Possibly one of the best.”

Barton scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “So’s a lot of people. People who aren’t serving time on death row.”

“True. But S.H.I.E.L.D. has resources that no other agency has, Mr. Barton. So after the Tehran debacle, we started doing a little digging into your hits. After Beirut, I started building a file. Everything I could find on you -which wasn’t much, by the way. Your hacker must be damn good; I couldn’t find any trace of ‘Clinton Barton’ in any government system other than your hits. So everything I had, came from your assassinations. At first, it seemed like typical, run-of-the-mill hits, until I started digging a bit deeper. And let’s just say what I found piqued my interest.

“You’ve been offered serious money to perform a number of jobs. Yet you turn down most of them. I looked for a pattern for almost three months. You worked for the good guys, did some freelancing, and worked for the not-so-good guys. So whatever it was that made you take a job, it wasn’t anything about principles -you don’t care who you take money from, saints or scumbags. When I realized that I wasn’t getting anywhere by looking at your employers, I decided to start digging into your targets. And that was when I found what I was looking for.

“It was the priest in the Ukraine that tipped me off first. There was an amount of overkill there that I hadn’t seen in any of your previous hits. You made that one personal, on some level. So I sent agents there, to see if they could gather any information about strange events before, during, or after. This was the first event where I thought maybe we could come up with something worthwhile.

“The agents came back with stories of a miracle. Within a few days of the hit, eight different children returned home. Some of them had been missing for months. One had only been gone two weeks. When the agents talked to the kids, all they would say is that an angel unlocked the doors to their cells, and a path of dead bodies pointed them towards the exit. I ended up going to the Ukraine personally to connect all the dots. After all, the good Father was the last person anyone would have suspected of any wrongdoing. The man was a hero; outstanding citizen who fed the hungry, clothed the naked, gave alms to the poor. He’d gotten dozens of mentions in newspapers in Europe, and been personally thanked by the mayors of dozens of cities.

“So I decided that the kids were the angle. I got photos of all of them; ran facial recognition on all of them through every exploited kids database I could.

“You don’t want to know how much… filth… I had to wade through until I finally got a hit. It was the one with the little red-haired girl. Poor thing couldn’t have been much older than six. Maybe seven.”

“She was almost ten,” Barton interrupted roughly, staring down at the table. “She was small for her age. Years of not having enough to eat. Her name was Vasylnya.”

Phil waited patiently for a moment, to see if Barton was going to add anything more. When he didn’t, Phil continued. “I noticed something, in that video though. The man with her had a nasty surgical scar, on his stomach. It was old, not very well stitched. So I hunted down the autopsy report from the priest. I look at the photos, and there it was. Same scar, same place.

“After that, I knew what to look for, and everything fell into place fairly quickly. Every person to your credit was involved in some nasty stuff. Kiddie porn, rape, torture, murder… Nothing obvious, though. It was all ten layers below the surface. To the public, everyone you killed was a fine, upstanding citizen. But when I pulled away the mask, they were all monsters.”

Barton finally looked up from the table, staring Phil in the eye. “So what? I’ve got a Superman complex, mixed in with a murder kink. Still doesn’t explain why you’d go through the trouble of picking me out of the bunch. I’m sure there’s others out there like me.”

“Not with your varied skill set. None with your aim. That’s why we want to make you an offer. We’ll get you out of here.”

“Yeah? On what conditions?” He demanded.

Fury leaned forward, elbows on the table, waiting patiently until Barton looked at him again. “Simple. The next six months, you wear a monitoring chip. You don’t ever leave S.H.I.E.L.D. grounds. Sixteen weeks of physical, psychological, and scholastic tests. You pass everything, you start your training. Six months of training, you get passing marks from your instructors, your handle, and myself, and we make you a certified agent, and start sending you out on ops. Keep your nose clean, don’t give us any problems, and after a year in the field, we remove the chip, and wipe your record clean.”

“The ops?”

“Nothing you’d be opposed to. We handle some very nasty people, people who the laws of their country can’t touch. Some of them haven’t become major threats… yet. But they will. I will promise you this: we will never give you orders to kill an innocent civilian.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we delve a bit further into Clint's past, and he starts getting settled into S.H.I.E.L.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: This Chapter has been reworked and edited*
> 
>  
> 
> By the way, I'm sort of... well, mixing, blending, and adding a lot of stuff from different comic 'verses, movie verse, and some of my own stuff. So yes, some stuff might not be entirely canonical, but I've tried not to change too many major background things. The few things I have changed, bear in mind either that I have a good reason for the change, or that its being told from a particular character's perspective; meaning they could be mistaken.
> 
> And with that... Moving on!

* * *

 

“So how’s it feel to be a free man again, Barton?” Phil asked conversationally, putting the black SUV into drive, and pulling away from the Attica pick-up point.

Barton shrugged, but Phil didn’t miss the way his hands ghosted, almost absently, over his rubbed-raw wrists. “Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t have taken me much longer, and I wouldda been out of there anyways, Very Special Agent Coulson.”

Phil glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “You can call me Phil, if you’d like.”

Barton gave him an unreadable look. “Alright… Phil. Where we headed?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in D.C.”

“The Triskelion, huh? That’s… what, a six hour drive this time of night?” He asked, glancing at the clock which read 9:36PM.

“Thereabouts. On an important note, I’ve requested to be your field handler. Any issues with that?”

Barton shrugged again, putting his sneakered feet on the dash, wrapping his arms behind the headrest, and slouching low in the seat. “Don’t really matter, I guess. One handler’s as good as another.”

“Alright, then, we can start some of the base evals while we drive then.”

Barton groaned, rolling his eyes. “Do we have to? I’ll promise not to kill any of the other agents, no matter how stupid they are. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“No. Where were you born? And please, no lying. I have to verify everything you tell me, and I’d appreciate keeping this nature as truthful as possible.”

Barton sighed, pulling his arms down, and folding them across his chest. “Little town in Iowa. Waverly. Shitty little town, in a shitty little county, in a shitty little state.”

“Is your name actually Clint Barton?”

“Clinton Francis Barton, Born 7 January, 1979, St. Agnes Regional Hospital to Harold and Edith Barton.”

“Are your parents still in Waverly?”

“No. They died,” Came the terse reply.

“My sympathies. How’d they pass?”

“Drunk driving. And you can keep your damn sympathies. Harold was a drunk, and Edith wouldn’t have said boo to a goddamn mouse if it bit her on the ass.”

“Any siblings?”

“One. He’s dead too.”

“He was in the car with your parents?”

“No.”

“Was he older? Younger?”

“Three years older. Name was Barney.”

“How’d he die?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Phil took a deep breath, mentally debating on whether or not to push the answer. But when he seen the slight twitching from the other man, he decided that perhaps right then wasn’t the best time, and decided to change the topic.

“Fair enough. So how’d you get started in this line of business?”

“I lived in a circus for a long time. Two of the guys, they… _mentored_ me… they worked for a group of paid-criminals. Thieves, killers, bounty hunters... Bunch of odd jobs”

“Hmm hm.”

“ ‘ _Hmm hm_ ’ what?” Barton demanded, glaring.

“What organization? How’d you get involved? Who were your mentors? What happened to them? Are they still alive? How’d you go into business on your own?”

Barton grunted, pulling his feet off the dash. “It was just a group of killers who had the same contacts; same guy who handed out jobs. The guys who trained me… Trickshot and the Swordsman. They had a falling out, Trickshot killed the Swordsman, and then he… We… I uh… he… _made_ … me –“ He grunted out the words “- _help_ him for a few years.”

“And what happened to Trickshot?”

“I killed him. Took all his contacts.”

“And you were how old?”

“Fifteen. I did a few jobs before I let people know it was me, and not Trickshot. After I proved myself, they didn’t care how old I was, or who I was, as long as I could get the job done. Besides, it’s not like what happened is an unusual occurrence in this line of work.”

“And what exactly did happen?” When Barton didn’t respond, Phil sighed. “Barton… I want you to know, I’m not doing any of this to torment you, or to try and embarrass you, or trap you. With this kind of work -field work, in particular -we need to know of any potential triggers you might have, so we don’t put you in any situation that could damage your psyche. But for us to do that, I _need_ you to trust me.”

“Trust S.H.I.E.L.D., you mean,” Barton muttered.

“I could give a _damn_ if you trust S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Phil said forcefully. At the surprised look in the young man’s eyes, Phil continued, “You trusting S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t matter. I need you to trust _me_. _I’m_ your handler. I need you to know, that everything I do for you, is for _your_ benefit. That I won’t send you into a situation that you can’t handle, or let anyone else send you into something can’t handle. If we can’t trust each other, this will never work. So if to trust me, you have to distrust S.H.I.E.L.D.? I can live with that. I would hope that, eventually, you could grow to trust others there, but it’s relatively low on my list of priorities. For right now, I just need you to trust me.”

He expected attitude; maybe a snarky, sarcastic comment. He wasn’t prepared for the silence that stretched out for a few minutes, with Barton staring out the window morosely.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Phil,” He finally said, his voice quiet.

Despite the negativity of his words, Phil took it as a good sign that the kid was at least honest enough to admit how he felt. So he simply shrugged as he said, “Well, we’ve got almost four months to try. But for right now, let’s discuss any potential trigger events. Is there any situation you aren’t comfortable in?” At the dismissive look in Clint’s eye, Phil sighed. “I understand that you can ‘do anything’, Barton, but is there anything, any role, any scenario, that would make you significantly uncomfortable, or cause undue duress?”

Clint hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Phil’s face, before he finally spoke. “I uh… I’m not particularly happy with roles where… I have to be like the priest.”

Phil gave him a smile. “Alright, that’s a good start. Any environments you’re not comfortable with?”

“I’m not overly fond of the cold, but I can handle it. I just gotta keep my hands warm, or my fingers start to ache," He said, looking down at his hands. "And you’re not gonna want me in public without a shirt.”

“Can I ask why?” Phil asked after a few minutes of tense silence.

Barton seemed to be debating with himself, before he just shrugged. “Let’s just leave it at I’ve got some scars that make people ask questions. Make me noticeable. Not something you want on an op.”

Phil nodded. “Okay. We can work with that.”

“Look, I uh… I’m really tired. Car rides, you know?”

“Alright. We made a pretty good start. I’ll wake you up when we get close.”

* * *

 

 “Barton? Barton, we’re here,” Phil said quietly, shutting the car off in the underground S.H.I.E.L.D. parking garage. The young man didn’t respond, and Phil silently cursed himself for not having planned ahead, and gotten a pair of hearing aids. With no other alternatives, he reached over, and gently shook Barton’s shoulder.

Instantly, the young man’s eyes flew open, his hand coming up in a fist, throwing a punch that nearly caught Phil in the jaw.

“Hey, easy now! It’s just me,” Phil said quickly.

Breathing heavily, it took Barton a few seconds for his eyes to focus, before he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I… sorry, you just… you startled me.”

Phil nodded in understanding. A lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who did field work had developed acute hyper-alertness, and didn’t appreciate being woken up by touch.

“No problem. We’re here. C’mon, I’ll show you to your room, get you settled in, and in the morning, we’ll take you to Medical, get your physical, microchip, and hearing aids.”

Still looking a bit out of it, Barton followed him out of the vehicle, through the various checkpoints, down the elevator, up a few flights of stairs, through some hallways, and finally, into the bunk areas. Glancing down at his PDA, Phil double checked the room number, before coming to a stop in front of C223.

“This is it,” He said, pointing towards the door, and the keypad beside it. “You’ll need to come up with an eight digit PIN code. Put it in twice, hit enter, put it in again, and it’ll be set. You’ll need to enter that code to enter your room. There are only four people in the building who have override codes, and only use them in emergencies.”

Clint nodded, a bit unsurely, and stepped up to the pad. He angled his body to prevent Phil from seeing the numbers he put in, but a few minutes later, the door opened, and the two men stepped inside.

“I know it’s not much. But after your year is up, you’re allowed to get a home off site. You are allowed to change things around though; the rooms are yours, and as long as you don’t break through into anyone else’s rooms, you can do whatever you want with it. If you want to make me a list, I’ll pick up any furnishings you might want, or if you’d prefer, you and I can go through some catalogues in my office, and pick some stuff out after your exams tomorrow,” Phil said as Barton moved around the room. It was only when Barton gave him a quizzical look, that Phil realized he hadn’t heard a word he said. So he repeated himself, only to get a shrug in response.

“It’s got a bed, a bathroom, and a desk. Don’t really need much more than that.”

“You sure? Each new agent gets a small allotted budget to furnish their rooms. Money’s already there, might as well use it.”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Alright then. I’ll be back at…” He glanced at his watch, which read 3:49AM. “Let’s say zero nine hundred? That be enough sleep?”

Barton chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can ‘get by’ with that.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in the morning then. Good night, Barton.”

He was halfway out the door, when Barton’s voice stopped him.

“Hey, uh… You can… you can call me Clint. If you want.

Phil turned, and gave him a smile. “Alright. Good night, Clint.”

“Night, Phil.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITED AND CHANGED*
> 
> So... First day with S.H.I.E.L.D., medical exams, the like... Thank you to Brenlie, Lundsdotter, nightwalker4769, Kaiyoz, Katyld19, 68hawkeye_fan, PointySnazzyThings, and ResidentWeevil for the kudos, and special thanks and appreciation to Kaiyoz for her comment.
> 
> I do apologize for any errors, this is un-beta'd and my first time posting on this site, so I'm still trying to figure out aesthetics, and the like. Thanks for bearing with me.

* * *

The next morning came far too early for Phil, given that he’d slept on the pull-out cot in his office, and the approximately five hours of sleep he’d gotten by the time he’d filled out his reports.

Thank God for coffee, he thought with a smile, glancing over to see that the expensive, French coffee pot that Fury had bought him was already warm; the automated timer on it was easily one of the best inventions known to man.

Far too many nights spent in the office had ensured that he was always prepared for the eventuality; he kept at least three extra suits in the small closet at all times, and today, he grabbed the charcoal grey, taking just enough time to brush his hair, and grab a second cup of coffee before he exited into the S.H.I.E.L.D. halls.

“Well, good morning, Phil. Long night?”

Phil smiled at Maria Hill, slowing his walk until she caught up. “A bit. My back’s starting to complain about that cot,” He said with a small laugh.

“The wonders of growing old,” She said with a shrug. “You should try tai chi; it works wonders for keeping the body limber.”

He glanced over at her, but -as usual -he couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “I’ll… take that under advisement.”

She gave him one of her trademark bland smiles. “You do that.” There was perhaps a minute of companionable silence, before she spoke again. “So, I heard you brought home a carny last night.”

“And here the Director thinks it’s me who knows everybody’s secrets.”

“Not much of a ‘secret’, Coulson. Well, the ‘carny’ bit is, but a lot of people were here monitoring a situation in Mogadishu last night; at least a dozen people saw you bring him in. So is he actually the one who got away from May in Beirut?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. So the infamous Bowman is here. This should be interesting. Well, I’ve got to go inform the Director about Mogadishu; have yourself a fine morning, Coulson.”

“You too, Maria.”

It was a few minutes before ten when he keyed in a code that would make the lights in Barton’s rooms flicker softly. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack, and Barton’s suspicious face peered out at him.

“Good morning. I brought coffee,” He said, holding up the plain white cup. “How’re you doing?”

Barton opened the door wide enough for him to step through, and shrugged as he closed it behind him.

“Fine, I guess. What’s on the agenda for today?” He asked, eyeballing the cup for a moment, before Phil set it down on the end table. Then he grabbed it, and gulped it down in one go.

“Well, first thing is your physical exam. After that, I figured we’d start on your scholastic tests, and then get you started with your psychiatric exam. Dr. Lee is already set up, and waiting.”

Barton nodded, and followed him out into the hallway, his back and shoulders stiff as he stalked behind him down the hall.

“By the way, while I’m thinking about it, if you want to give me your sizes, I can go and get you some more clothes while you’re in the exam.”

Barton missed a step, catching himself before it became too obvious, before he looked at Phil suspiciously. “I assumed… I guess I thought that you’d be doing the exam.”

Phil chuckled as he turned down the hall leading to Medical. “No. I’ll admit to a wide array of skills, but I’m not a doctor. But I can stay with you, if you like. There’s plenty of paper-pushers who can go grab some clothes.”

Barton shrugged, but years of reading people allowed Phil to catch the slight easing of tension in the young man’s shoulders, despite the casualness of his words as he said, “Yeah, that’ll work, I guess. Large t-shirts, 38x38 jeans.”

“Color preferences?”

“Blue or black pants, dark shirts.”

Phil nodded as he opened the door to the exam room, ushering Barton inside. “Alright. I’ll go and get Dr. Lee, if you want to get undressed, and jump on the table. Here,” He said, handing him the small medical sheet. “Cover up with this, and I’ll be back in a minute, alright?”

Barton nodded, swallowing roughly.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Phil gave him a reassuring smile. “Alright. Be back in a few.”

As he walked out, and into the room next door, he couldn’t help but sigh. While logically, he knew that healthy, well-adjusted people with happy childhoods didn’t typically become secret agents working for a secret organization, it never became easier dealing with the paranoid, hyper-alert, psychological messes it left behind.

“Agent Coulson! I hear you finally got yourself a new field agent,” Dr. Lee said pleasantly, standing up from her desk.

“Yeah. Clint Barton. And, forewarning, I think he’s feeling a little skittish.”

Lee smiled sadly. “Few people who come in for this sort of exam are comfortable with it. But the Director made sure I got the prison and pre-trial exam notes.”

“Good. He should probably be ready. Let’s get on with it.”

“You staying for the exam?” She asked casually as they moved towards the door.

“Yeah. Think it’ll make him more comfortable.”

She shrugged casually, before smiling as she entered the room. Clint was sitting awkwardly on the exam table, alternating between pulling the sheet up and down, his face growing red at the sight of the female doctor.

The scars on his chest were fairly intense; Phil found himself a bit amazed that he’d survived what appeared to be at least a handful of gunshots, and a dozen or more stab wounds covering his chest. But to her credit, Dr. Lee didn’t miss a beat.

“Hello there, Mr. Barton. My name is Doctor Lee, and I’m going to be doing your exam if that’s okay?” She asked with a large smile.

“No peeking where you shouldn’t,” He said, the forced tone of voice belying his attempt at a joke. But Dr. Lee smiled anyways.

“Alright, then. We’re going to start with a visual exam, a little poking and prodding, then we’ll get you in for an X-ray, MRI, and a PET scan. After we’re all done, we’ll get you set for your hearing aids. Sound good?” When Barton nodded, she nodded back. “Alright, then hold your arm out for me.”

Barton obeyed, holding his left arm out in front of him. “I’ve got quite a few metal pins, so the MRI is probably not a good idea.”

“Fair enough,” Dr. Lee said idly, poking, seemingly at random, up his arms. “How’s your vision?”

“Better than yours,” He said, another forced smile accompanying his words.

She chuckled. “I bet it is. Mind if I ask what caused these?” She asked, gingerly touching the scars on his chest.”

Clint glanced over at Phil. “Do I have to answer that?” When Phil nodded, he sighed. “I was shot. And stabbed.”

“Uh huh. Did you get medical care for them?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Any pain, or tenderness when I press down anywhere?” Dr. Lee asked, continuing on, moving her hands down his rib cage.

“Nope.”

“Any physical deformities?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Allergies?”

“Yeah. Morphine.”

Dr. Lee pulled back a bit. “Really? That’s a rare condition -usually finding out your allergic to morphine ends pretty badly.”

“Yeah. It did,” He said shortly. “I nearly died.”

“And you’re sure it was the morphine?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Do you mind if I run some tests on it?”

Barton shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

“Alright then. I’m gonna go get the X-ray ready, get some supplies, and go from there. Agent Coulson and I will give you a minute to dress, and be right back, okay?”

She nodded over to Phil, and the two walked out.

“So… what’d you think?” He asked.

The smile dropped off her face almost instantly, revealing a face that showed the years she’d spent dealing with things like this. “Worse than some I’ve seen. Better than others. I seen quite a few fracture scars. I suppose we’ll see quite a few healed fractures on the x-ray.”

Phil smiled sadly. “No doubt. Has Fury assigned a psychiatrist yet?”

She glanced over the file for a moment. “Looks like Dr. Halani; he’s pretty good, and we’ve got Dr. Balcom for a backup. She’s good, but I hear she can be pretty rough when she needs to be. But I better go get some stuff set up. Longer we leave him in there, the more nervous he’s going to get.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was way too late, Phil noticed idly, as he continued building the file on Clint Barton. The first of what would most likely be many psych evals had arrived by email about fifteen minutes ago; about ten minutes before he’d  planned on leaving the office.

So he’d decided -not having anyone or anything to go home to -he might as well start building the file. So he’d gathered what little information he’d been able to pull throughout the day, including records on Harold, Edith, and Bernard Barton.

While nothing was obvious, or overt, Phil could read between the lines, and got a pretty grim picture of life in the Barton residence fairly easily. Every few weeks or so, there was a disorderly conduct report, and once or twice monthly domestic disturbance reports. Following these reports, Phil could find repeated hospital visits for both Edith, and Bernard Barton, although Phil was once again struck with admiration for whoever Barton had hired to erase his records; there was literally no mention of Clinton Francis Barton in any official records from Waverly. He’d put in a request to Waverly Elementary School, and St. Agnes Regional Hospital to see if they had kept any hard copies.

But the results of his hearing test -and the subsequent tests -had been some of the first things to go into the new file. According to Dr. Lee, his hearing loss was most likely the result of early childhood abuse, although she couldn’t be sure an exact age.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes as he glanced at the psych evaluation, already prepared for a headache. And he wasn’t too terribly surprised at the briefness of it, a mere two pages, that -boiled down to its essentials -said that Dr. Halani hadn’t been able to get anything; that Barton had said nothing, just staring at the wall the entire two hours.

He stared at the report for a minute more, before he gently closed the file, running his fingers along the edges, before he stood, and left his office.

It took him a few minutes to get to Barton’s room, even with the hallways mostly cleared. When he got there, he keyed in his code, and after a few seconds, the door opened, and Clint’s face peered around the door. Upon seeing Phil, he gave him a small, tight smile, and opened the door.

“Figured you wouldda went home already,” Barton said, closing the door behind Phil, and leaning against the door, arms folded across his chest.

“Paperwork,” Phil said with a small shrug. “How’re you settling in?” He asked pointedly, glancing at the pillow and sheet, making a small bed on the floor inside the small closet.

Barton shifted uncomfortably, scrubbing one hand through his hair. “It’s… Not used to sleeping on soft beds. Couldn’t sleep.”

“We can get you a harder mattress if you want. Or a hammock, or something?” Phil said helpfully, motioning towards a chair. When Barton nodded, Phil sat, setting his elbows on his knees. “So how was your first day? Tired?”

Barton gave him a half smile, balancing on the tips of his toes, elbows on his knees, on the edge of the couch. “Yeah. A bit,” He admitted. “But it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, I guess.”

Phil noded sagely. “It usually isn’t. Our minds have ways of making things look a lot worse than they actually are. Like speaking to a therapist, for instance.”

Barton rolled his eyes as he dropped into a sitting position. “Didn’t like him. Guy kept askin’ me how I felt ‘bout the folks I killed, how I ‘got into this’,” He said disdainfully, making air quotes with his fingers. “Guy didn’t even buy me dinner ‘fore he tried to mind-fuck me.”

Phil shrugged. “Alright. So you don’t like Dr. Halani. We’ll switch you over to Dr. Balcom next then. She’s a bit… rough, I’ll warn you. She tells you what she thinks, what she thinks you should think, and God help the person who argues with her. But, a lot of field specialists seem to like her. But this is good, Barton.”

Barton glared at him suspiciously. “What? That I won’t talk to your head-shrinker? ‘Cause if that’s good, I’ll gladly do it again.”

“No,” Phil said, unable to avoid rolling his eyes in exasperation. “That you’re talking to me. Letting me know what’s going on, how you’re adjusting. You keep being honest with me, I’ll be honest with you, and I think we got the makings of a solid team here.”

Barton looked up at him, and -for just a moment -Phil saw the years slide off the young man’s face, an almost hopeful look in his eyes, mixed with an odd sense of pride, like he was pleased that Phil was pleased. It made him look less like the hardened assassin, and more like the twenty-year old boy he was.

But it was only for an instant; almost as soon as it’d come, it was gone, and Barton ducked his head, as if he knew what Phil had seen.

“I… I gotta say, Phil… This wasn’t as bad as I thought, all the way around. Figured it’d be a lot worse,” He said, feet fidgeting as he drummed his fingers on his thigh. “It’s actually kinda nice. Three squares of somethin’ that’s actually recognizable as food, little place to call my own… Hell, even got a pair of hearing aids out of it.”

“Oh, yeah, I meant to ask how those are working. Everything okay? They fit comfortably?”

“Huh? Yeah, they’re great, maybe even better than what I had. It’s a little much, though, you know?”

“No, I’m not sure I do. Are they not right? We can always take them back and get them adjusted if there’s a problem.”

“What? No, no, they’re… they’re great, it’s just… For almost six months, it’s just been… everything’s been muffled… So damn quiet, and then all of the sudden it’s… It’s like overload. You ever been blindfolded?”

Phil nodded slowly. “Yes. More times than I care to remember,” He said quietly.

“Well, you know how after… after staring at a piece of cloth, or tape, or whatever for hours, and then they rip it off, and it’s just… it hurts because your eyes have to readjust to colors and light, and everything, all at once. It’s like that, but… but more, because there’s so many different sounds. I went to the mess to grab somethin’ to eat, and it was just… so chaotic. Hundreds of voices, and sounds, everything scrapping, and banging, and yelling. After six months, it just seemed like everyone was screaming in my face, banging dishes in my ears.” He ducked his head, irritation plain on his face. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but –“

“No, no, I think I get it,” Phil interrupted. “I mean, I don’t think I could fully comprehend it, but I get what you’re saying. But here, without all the noise, are they working okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah, they’re working great. I didn’t mean to sound like I didn’t appreciate it. I mean, all of this is… It’s great. I appreciate it.”

“It’s our pleasure, Clint. So tomorrow we’ll get you in with Dr. Balcom, and take you back for some more tests, and the results. After that, if the range is open, we’ll go do some shooting, see how your scores come back. Everything goes good, and we have some time, we’ll try and get in some scholastic tests. Sound like a plan?”

Instantly, Barton’s foot began tapping again, faster this time. “I uh… I probably should’ve told you, I haven’t been to school since third grade. So I hope a GED isn’t a requirement or nothin’.”

“We’ll just have to get you up to par,” Phil said, far more confidently than he felt. “We’ll figure out where you excel, and where you’re behind, and get you some crash courses.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more into Clint's background. As well, if anyone has any suggestions for chapter titles, feel free to let me know? I'm almost as bad with chapter names as I am with summaries lol.

* * *

 

Clint was organizing the books he’d grabbed from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s library when he heard the heavy knock on the door. Setting down the rest of the books down, he opened the door, a grin coming to his face when he seen Phil standing there, a brown Chinese food bag in hand.

“You like Chinese?” Phil asked with a smile, holding the bag up.

“Yeah. C’mon in,” Clint said, holding the door open. “Was just finishing putting my books away.”

“Oh, speaking of… I’ve got your test results back. From the scholastic, weaponry, and vision,” Phil said, setting the food down on the small table, and pulling the white containers out. “I didn’t know what you liked so I got… General Tsao’s, Beef Chow Mein, Chicken and Broccoli, all with pork fried rice.”

Clint sat down, eyeing the food eagerly. “Not really picky, sir. Been a long time since I’ve had Chinese.”

Phil chuckled, passing over the Beef Chow Mein, and a container of pork fried rice. “So which results you want first?”

Clint nearly choked on a particularly large bit of Chow Mein. “Uh… I don’t care. Take your pick.”

Phil shrugged as he opened up the container of General Tsao’s. “Well… Your vision was better than anything we’ve seen here at S.H.I.E.L.D. And let me say, we’ve seen the best. Your score literally places you between a hawk and an eagle.”

Clint chuckled a bit, before frowning abashedly as a few grains of rice fell from his mouth. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. What’s so funny?”

“It’s just uh… Back with Carson’s carnival, I uh… I had my own act for a while, and they… they billed me as ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’. Just… kinda funny, I suppose.”

Phil thought for a moment, before nodding with a smile. “Interesting. So I guess we’ll have your field name then.”

“No.” The answer was sharp, flying out of Clint’s lips almost before he knew what was happening. “I mean… No, sir. If that’s alright sir. I’d rather not.”

Phil looked at him funny, but nodded. “Alright. We’ve got a little less than eight weeks to figure it out. How’d your appointment with Dr. Balcom go?”

Clint gave him a wry grin. “Nice segue, sir. But it went good. I like her. She uh… She doesn’t beat around the bush.”

“That’s what I hear. Your range scores topped out… But I’d like to take you out to the Blocks tomorrow. The range doesn’t really offer a good indicator of your skill.”

Clint looked up at him curiously. “The Blocks?”

“Yeah. It’s a four square block radius city we made. Complete with dummies set up. We use to for practice ops. Takes up about a half mile. You feel up for it?”

“Yeah. Of course, sir. Honestly, the range wasn’t a challenge. I’d enjoy getting some good practice in,” Clint said with a grin, setting the empty box down. “So. You lead with the good news… How bad was the school test?”

Phil grimaced. “Well… There’s some more good news… and some… ‘eh’ news.”

Clint chuckled. “Alright. So what’s the good news?”

“Well… For someone with an eighth grade education, you managed to pass your algebra, trig, and calculus with flying colors.”

“Uh… not sure what that is, but… great?”

Phil looked at him, and for a moment, Clint felt the overwhelming desire to laugh at the look on Phil’s face, equal parts shock and disbelief.

“Um… yeah, that’s… that’s actually amazing. Calculus and trigonometry are advanced mathematics,” Phil said slowly. “We’re talking complicated processes.”

Clint shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve always been good with math, sir. It’s always come easy for me.”

“Yeah… Ok. So um… Your science skills were middling –biology was a fail, but you managed to barely pass chemistry. History was… Well, I won’t lie, Clint, it was… pretty bad.”

“How bad?”

“Well.. you got about twenty percent right,” Phil said apologetically. “Your language skills were good. Out of three levels, you had…” He glanced down at the paperwork, “threes in Russian, French, and Spanish; twos in Afrikaans, Arabic, and Chinese; and ones in Hindi, Italians, and Portuguese. Three is native speaker, two is fluent, one is passable. Which is… actually pretty impressive. We’ve got agents of twenty years who aren’t don’t speak more than two languages fluently.”

Clint shrugged, eyeing the chicken and broccoli. At Phil’s nod, Clint grabbed the container. “I uh… Always had a knack for languages. Although that might have had something to do with culture-crash. You’re on a job, you wanna eat, you learn to pick up the local languages pretty quick. And there were a lot of Russians and French in the carnival,” He said between bites of food.

“Speaking of the carnival… I managed to track down some more of your personal records. Got faxes from the hospital where you were born, the school at Waverly… And I also managed to track down Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders.”

Clint felt a wave of homesickness run through him, quickly followed by a wave of nausea at the thought of his last night at the carnival.

Phil must have noticed the look on his face. “You want me to keep going, or…?”

“Nah. I’m good. How’s Old Man Carson?” He forced out, shoveling more food into his mouth.

“Good. He actually remembers you. Said he’s going to send me one of your flyers. And his daughter… Marcella? She seemed quite excited to learn you were doing well.”

Clint chuckled. “I assume you didn’t tell her the whole ‘hit-man, sent to jail, working for the super-secret spy organization’ thing?”

Phil smiled. “Uh, no, I didn’t. I just told her I was a friend helping you out; that I’d gotten you a job working with me.”

“Uh huh. Doing… what, exactly?”

“Weapons testing for a private contractor.”

“And she bought that?”

“Oh, yes,” Phil said with a smile. “Seemed excited about it, actually. She said to make sure I told you hi, and you should come back and visit. That she misses you.”

Clint smiled sadly, as his appetite vanished, shoving the food away. “Yeah. That sounds like Marcy. She was a good kid.”

“Kid?” Phil asked with raised eyebrows. “She didn’t seem much younger than you.”

“Two years younger. Although… her world? She might as well have been a baby. Girl was brilliant at catching pickpockets, and short-changers, but when it came to life outside the carnival… She was as naïve as a nun.”

There was a few minutes of silence, while the two men stared at the table,  before Phil cleared his throat. “You… wanna talk about it?”

Clint shrugged uncomfortably. “Not much to talk about. I was ten, she was eight… I was the only person her age, so we… we bonded. I think she…” He chuckled a bit, “I think she thought of me as her stray puppy sometimes. We uh… When Barney and I joined, we… we were… outsiders. Other than Carson and his bunch, everyone there was… well, an odd duck, you know? Carnies don’t necessarily fit the definition of ‘normal’. So everyone else there was either an oddity, or an outcast. Then Barney and I show up, two normal kids… So there was a lot of uh… suspicion.

“Barney did a bit better than I did. He was thirteen… Big for his age. He made himself useful, got close with some of the others. But me… I was small… Mostly deaf. Wasn’t much for me to do. So I was always the last one to eat, first one to get picked on… Marcy took me in. At night, while Carson would be getting everything ready for the next day, she’d sneak me into their trailer, make sure I got a shower, hot meal… Sometimes, when she knew her dad would be late, she’d let me get a few hours of sleep on her bed.”

“Where was your brother during all this?”

Clint scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “Barney was… Well, he was thirteen, you know? Teenager, been dragging around his little brother, protecting him, watching out for him for four years… Once we were at the carnival, he just… he enjoyed his freedom, I guess. Didn’t want me hanging around his neck anymore.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so firstly: no excuses, and no promises. I had a sudden burst of inspiration for this chapter, and I'm feeling maybe like I can continue it... But I make no promises. Sorry.

_“I’m sorry!”_

_“After everything I did for you!”_

_“Please… Please, Buck…”_

Clint bolted upright, nearly smashing his head on the low shelf of the closet where he’d built his little nest, the taste of blood still as fresh and bitter in his mouth as it had been seven years ago. The phantom pain that ran from his legs, to his ribs, to his shoulder as sharp as it had been on the night it’d all changed. The night his whole life –which had already sucked –went sideways, throwing a great big nuclear wrench into things.

He forced himself to inhale through his mouth, counting to ten before releasing the breath back out through his nose as he focused his mind on the checklist of his body. Nothing was injured. Nothing was broken. No blood, no broken bones, no bruises, no cuts.

_It was only a memory. Wasn’t real. Can’t hurt._

With a groan, he pulled himself out of the closet, feeling his aching muscles protesting the change of position. He could feel the headache coming on as he pulled himself to his feet, trying to rub the kink out of his neck. He slowly made his way over to the small mini-fridge in the corner, and pulled out the leftovers  from the Chinese food Coulson had brought, flopping down on the table in exhaustion.

“That’s okay, brain,” He grumbled to himself, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, poking at the food with a fork with the other hand. “I don’t need sleep. Not like I got shit to do tomorrow or nothing. No big deal. Sleep? Who needs it? Not me. That’s for damn sure.”

After a few minutes of poking his food –which looked far more unappetizing than it had a few hours ago –he stood up with a grunt, and made his way to the door. If he wasn’t gonna get any sleep, he might as well do some exploring. He hadn’t had the opportunity to go anywhere but where Phil had taken him, since his days had been packed to the brim with tests, training, more tests, classes, different tests, evaluations, and a few other tests.

Even as he entered the large, dimly lit hallway –making sure to shut the door tightly behind him –he debated the merits of wandering. While they hadn’t specifically told him he couldn’t go exploring, everyone but Phil had made it clear that he wasn’t entirely trusted either.

He rolled his shoulders a bit, silently moving down the hallway, inwardly shrugging. He always had the excuse of ignorance –again, nobody had told him he couldn’t – and really… how many people was he likely to encounter at –he glanced at his watch, and suppressed another groan –three in the morning?

It _was_ amazing how much different the building was at night. How quiet it was, even with his new hearing aids, as he meandered to the end of one hall, and turned a left, and then a right. Usually there was a hustle of people traversing the corridors, scurrying around trying to get from one point to another, heads bent in whispers, with only a polite nod here, a quick ‘hello’ there as they scuttled around like rats in a maze.

He hadn’t had a destination in mind –not that he’d really know where to go yet anyways –but it was a bit surprising when he found himself looking at a multitude of conference rooms, glass walls separating the rooms from the hallways. Bleary eyed people, chugging coffee and energy drinks, sat around large tables, passing around papers, pointing to presentation screens, and generally looking like they’d been run through a few dozen mental laps.

Startled, he jumped a bit as a hand set lightly on his shoulder, turning sharply to see a dark haired woman standing there.

“Hi there. You must be Agent Coulson’s new protégé,” She said with a small smile. “Nice to finally meet you.  I’m Maria.”

“Barton. Clint,” He said reluctantly, shaking her hand slowly.

“It’s a pleasure, Clint. Couldn’t sleep?”

Clint shrugged, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “What’s all this then?” He asked, nodding towards the people shuffling about. “No rest for super spies?”

She laughed lightly. “This is the switch over shift. Some are coming on, some are going home… That room over there is monitoring a situation in Bahrain. But not too many people are down here; we’re moving most of our night operations to the upper levels.”

“This isn’t too many people? There’s gotta be a couple dozen here,” He asked, trying to make the question seem merely curious.

* * *

 

Maria kept the smile plastered on her face, picking up the forced laziness in the young man’s voice. “Well, for us, this is… practically nobody comparatively speaking. But this area is off limits to probationary agents.”

Instantly, Barton pushed away from the wall, a goofy, all-American-boy-next-door smile coming to his face, tilting his head to the side sheepishly. It was a nice mixture of ‘oops, I didn’t know’, and ‘I’m too cute to get in trouble’. On most people, it probably would have worked. But Maria had trained with the best, and was considered one of the best.

But she decided to play along, if nothing else to get a chance to spend some time with Phil’s latest injured bird. He hadn’t taken a new trainee in six years, ever since his last one had…

Well. Better not to think on that too much. Suffice to say, there must have been something fairly special about Clint Barton for Phil to take another protégé.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize this was off limits,” He said, a slight hint of Missouri or Iowan accent underlying his words. She was impressed; it wasn’t enough to actually attract attention, but just enough to give him a trusting tone.

“No problems, Mr. Barton. And I’ll tell you what: why don’t you let me give you a real tour? I’m sure Agent Coulson has had you running around to classrooms, and the cafeteria; you haven’t seen any of the good stuff yet.”

A slight twitch was the only thing that gave away his unhappiness at her offer, but the smile never moved as he nodded. “Of course, ma’am; I’d love that.”

“Good. C’mon; I’ll show you the best gyms, the range with the best weapons keepers, best showers…” She held out her arm, and he took it, bowing his head, his grin turning a bit… well, doofy, was the best way she could describe it, and despite herself, she could feel herself softening towards him, wanting to believe he was the mid-western farm boy he was passing himself off as.

She sighed, stopping mid-stride, and pulling her arm out of Barton’s. At his quizzical look, she smiled. “You know… I get tired of constantly having to put on a face for people, Clint. How about you? How about we make a deal? You drop the ‘good ol’ farm boy’ routine, and I’ll drop the polite hostess routine. I don’t know who you really are, Barton, but I know this isn’t it.”

Instantly, his entire being changed, and for the first time, she got a glimpse of just how truly dangerous the young man was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay for another chapter? Also, my general plan for this was to continue a bit longer on how Clint became a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, and then jumping forward a bit to meeting Natasha, and some of their missions together, then jumping forward to the movies. Just an FYI.

Phil was busily trying to set a schedule of classes for Clint, when the door to his office swung open, and Dr. Balcom sashayed in, plopping herself in the leather chair across from his desk, throwing her feet up over the arm.

“Hi, Patricia. Nice to see you. Don’t bother knocking, just come in and make yourself at home,” He said, a tired smile lightening the words as he looked up from his papers.

“I did,” She said, giving him a grin that belied her sixty years. Short, with steel-colored hair, the only concession to her age she made was a pair of comfortable penny loafers; she wore a red shirt with an open-buttoned checkered shirt, and a pair of jeans, with tattoos peeking out from her neck, and wrists. “I wanted to talk about your newest little protégé. Your carnie.”

Phil leaned back in his chair, class schedule momentarily forgotten. “How’d it go?”

Patricia pursed her lips, shrugging her shoulders a bit. “How’d the _session_ go? Not too bad. Just how broken is your latest little birdy? Well… that’s another story, unfortunately.”

“Meaning what?” Phil asked defensively, sitting forward again with a glare.

“Oh relax, Coulson, I’m not insulting the boy. But the fact remains, he’s not all right in the head right now. I read your very brief mention of his brother from your initial field interview; you realize that’s a crock of shit, right?”

Phil hesitated, moving his jaw from side to side for a moment before finally nodding. “Yeah. I looked into it; no record of a Bernard, Barnard, Barney, or Bernie Barton serving in Iraq, much less dying there. I also checked the social security number I pulled from the hospital reports for Bernard; that number hasn’t been touched since the two boys disappeared from foster care, and wound up at Carson’s Carnival. I’ve got a nation-wide search for him going right now, as well as agents talking to folks at the carnival; nothing so far.” He hesitated again, before asking, “Do you think he’s deliberately lying or trying to hide something nasty?”

Patricia grimaced. “Honestly? The little bit we briefly hit on it, he seemed surprisingly open about it. How his brother was a war hero, a great guy, and all that jazz. Matter of fact, it was the _only_ thing he talked about without acting like I was pulling out his fingernails.”

“So what do you think it means?”

Patricia looked him square in the eye, setting her elbows on the desk. “I think it means that Barton was a seven year old boy, whose whole life was falling apart after his parents died, followed by the horrible foster homes. He was drifting, with no one but his big brother to hold on to. Honestly, I think that boy could have been Charles Manson, and Clint would refuse to acknowledge it. Whatever Bernard Barton was, or whatever he might have done, Clint _needed_ him to be a hero; _needed_ him to be the savior of their story. And I think he needed that desperately enough to formulate a fictional story about his heroic older brother dying bravely overseas. But somewhere along the line, his brain… twisted the story, if you will. This story he created, to try and hold onto that childhood fantasy, he now believes is real. His mind won’t let him accept anything bad about his brother. But whatever triggered this fantasy… Whatever Bernard Barton did to force his mind to accept his make-believe for real… Well, when you consider what the boy has seen in his short twenty some odd years, it must have been pretty damn awful.”

The room was silent for a few minutes, both agent and psychologist thinking on her words, before Patricia shook her shoulders, as if leaving the weight of her words behind.

“So, how are those hospital records going? I’m going to need a hard copy when they get here.”

Phil rolled his eyes, giving her a small smile. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping them to myself, Patricia. I’ve got some hard copies coming in in the morning, and those agents I sent out should be back hopefully by the end of the week with some more.”

“What exactly do you have them doing?” She asked curiously, leaning forward, and grabbing his puzzle box, twisting it back and forth.

Phil leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “However crappy Harold and Edith Barton might have been, it’s a long jump from what I seen in the older brother’s hospital reports, to the scars Clint has. With his parents, we’re talking minor cuts and bruises, the occasional broken bone, to knife scars in areas designed to be painful today. Burn marks on his thighs and torso.”

“Pretty big difference in M.O,” Patricia threw out casually, but her eyes narrowed as she set the box back down.

“My thoughts, exactly. So I’ve got three agents tracking down hospital records from when Carson’s Carnival rolled through town. So far they’ve gotten three possible hits. Hard to know for sure, but it’s possible. I’ll talk more to Clint about it, see if I can get him to confirm.”

“Just be careful, Coulson; that boy’s got walls a mile high, and if you go breaking them down… You might not like what you find behind it.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“He’s still a _boy_ , Coulson. How many non-government-funded assassins do you know that young? Barton built those walls to _survive_ ; whatever happened at Carson’s –and the catalyst was at the carnival, I promise you that –would have broken him. So he’s taken all that _shit_ , and put it behind those walls; it’s what allows him to be the goofy, mid-western farm boy with the big smile. But I watched the video of you and the director at the prison; what happened when he realized you knew he deaf. You saw it too, Coulson: he went from friendly good ol’ boy to trained killer quicker than you could blink. Look… All I’m saying is, he’s got a very tenuous grip at best on the gates to those walls; start pulling down the foundation…”

“There’s no telling what may run out,” Phil finished slowly.

“Exactly.”


	7. Chapter 7

**_INCIDENT REPORT_ **

_Casper, Wyoming Police Department_

_Responding Officer: Jacob Huntings_

_Date: February 3 rd 1985_

_Time: 0730_

_Officer responded to St. Mary’s Medical Center in Casper, after receiving a call from Drs. Mathew Britton and Elizabeth Cowher at approximately 0700. Upon arriving, officer was informed that they had just finished surgery on a young John Doe, estimated between 12 and 15 years of age. John Doe had been stabbed sixteen times, shot twice, and had been badly beaten, as well as suffering from severe hypothermia. John Doe had been found in a field by a hunter (see attached witness report: Harold Allen) at approximately 0300. The field in question lays approximately a mile in any direction from a main road, leading to the conclusion that the boy was left there intentionally. With no identification, and being unconscious, officer decided to remain at the hospital until such a time as his identity could be ascertained._

* * *

 

_Responding Officer: Jacob Huntings_

_Date: February 4 th, 1985_

_Time: 2200_

_After John Doe was stabilized, Dr. Elizabeth Cowher completed a more thorough physical exam (see attached medical report: Elizabeth Cowher, MD). At this time, she reports that John Doe’s body shows signs of long term physical and sexual abuse, including repeated rectal tearing, and numerous broken bones that had never been set properly. According to Dr. Cowher, the abuse has been on-going for a period of at least 4 or more years._

_Officer released John Doe’s description to the media, and asked for any witnesses, or anyone who might know him to come forward._

_John Doe remains in stable, yet critical condition, and has not yet regained consciousness._

* * *

 

_Responding Officer: Jacob Huntings_

_Date: February 7 th, 1985_

_Time: 1700_

_John Doe woke at approximately 1600. He confirmed his age as 14, and said his first name was Clint, but would not provide a last name. Clint refused to answer questions about his family, his residence, where he went to school, or who assaulted him. Due to these circumstances, officer has come to the conclusion that ‘Clint’ is most likely a prostitute, possibly from Cheyenne. When asked, Clint neither confirmed nor denied. Kathryn Trout has been appointed from Social Services (see attached report: Kathryn Trout). Patient remains in stable condition, and has been moved from the ICU._

**_Psychological Evaluation of John Doe #4775, ‘Clint’_ **

_Attending Psychiatrist: Kathryn Trout_

_Date: February 14 th 1985_

_Today was the last day of my evaluation of ‘Clint’, a John Doe brought to St. Mary’s Medical Center on the morning of February 3 rd. Based off of medical reports, and victim behavior, I have to conclude that ‘Clint’ –if that is his real name –is not a prostitute, but rather suffering from an abusive home. While small for his age, he is not malnourished, and his clothes –while hand-me-downs –were in relatively good condition. His schooling, however, is woefully below grade level, and our standard tests put him at approximately a third grader’s education._

_‘Clint’ will answer questions about generic information, such as his favorite color, sport, etc., but will not give any personal details about himself, where he comes from, or who has been abusing him. He shows classic psychological signs of being abused, and seems to dislike being in the presence of men._

_At my suggestion, Dr. Britton did an examination, and discovered that ‘Clint’ is mostly deaf. Based off of our conversations though, he seems to be relatively adept at lip reading. Dr. Britton says the injury causing the deafness is due to a matching set of ruptured ear drums, and confirmed that the likeliness of an injury occurring on both sides of the head, and rupturing both ear drums is highly unlikely, and is most likely another symptom of the long-term abuse ‘Clint’ has suffered._

_One of the nurses reported that ‘Clint’ frequently cries out in his sleep, naming ‘Barney’, and ‘Buck’ repeatedly. When pressed on the names, ‘Clint’ shuts down, and refuses to speak._

_Dr. Britton estimates that ‘Clint’ will be hospitalized for a minimum of another two weeks. During that period, I am attempting to find a suitable placement home. But given the lack of information, ‘Clint’s obvious mental duress, and injuries, as well as his history, I’m not optimistic about his chances._

* * *

 

 

“Barton.”

Clint turns, away from the cafeteria, flashing Coulson a grin when he spotted him. “Phil. I was just goin’ to grab a bite, I –“

“It’ll have to wait. We’ve got some things we need you to confirm.”

Clint felt the smile slide off his face, a heavy feeling sinking into the pit of his stomach at the tone of Phil’s voice, the… shit, the _pity_ he can see there.

“ ‘We’, huh?” He said, careful to keep his voice neutral as he folded his arms across his chest. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. Dr. Balcom and I have some records we need you to go over, and confirm or deny their events.”

That cold feeling was creeping up his neck, and Clint fought back the urge to panic. “What sort of records? And what do you mean, ‘events’?”

Phil took a step forward, and Clint took a step back. A frown appeared on Coulson’s face, but he stepped back, holding his arms up.

“Look, Clint, it’s nothing you’re in trouble for; nobody’s angry, or upset. But we need to do this, and I tend to take the Band-Aid approach to this sort of thing. Get it done and over with all at once, okay?”

 

* * *

 

Phil didn’t miss the panicked look in Clint’s eye, the way they darted towards the cafeteria, then up to the vents, to Phil, then back to the cafeteria. He had realized about three seconds into the conversation that somehow, he’d sent the whole thing spinning sideways, and making Barton panic.

In his defense, he knew he was off his game. The records he’d received a few hours previously had sent him for a tailspin, and he’d spent the better part of two hours discussing how to handle it with Patricia, which left his nerves frayed and tattered, and his temper riding dangerously close to the surface.

He took a deep breath, and put on a tired smile. “We’re going to do this, Clint. And we’re going to do it _now_ , alright? We’re going to go to my office, and get this done and over with, and then we’re going to move on, and go ahead with making you an agent, okay? But this is _going_ to happen.” He made it a point to keep his voice quiet, friendly, and assertive at the same time.

“Why?”

With effort, Phil kept his emotions off his face. Despite Clint’s anxious posture, his voice was cold, almost expressionless, his green eyes still searching out escape routes.

“Because. The information in the files needs to be explained. Unexplained, it leaves it open for debate whether or not you’re fit for active field duty. Also, it calls into question if you’re telling us the truth about your background or not.”

Barton stood stock still for thirty-three seconds (and they were probably the longest thirty three seconds of his life), before his shoulders slumped, head hanging as he took a resigned step towards Phil.

“I don’t want to do this,” He said quietly, his voice an almost broken plea. “I didn’t lie about nothin’, sir, I swear.”

“I understand that, Clint,” Phil said reassuringly. “Nobody is saying you’re a liar. But we don’t want that to come up later as an issue. Everything on the up and up –as much as it can be for a super-secret spy organization, right?”

Clint didn’t respond, but at least he followed Phil as he moved towards his office.


	8. Chapter 8

Phil knew he’d mishandled the whole damned situation –mishandled it in a way he didn’t do often. Clint followed along beside him, head down, stance tense, and ready to bolt. But to his credit, he followed Phil all the way from the cafeteria to the elevators, up six floors, and another hundred feet to Phil’s office.

He was stone silent, stoically following Phil through the door, and into the office. As Phil went around, and sat at his desk, Clint fidgeted, ignoring Dr. Balcom, before he blurted, “I didn’t steal it, sir, honestly! I swear it wasn’t me! You can ask Carson, and Marcia, they’ll tell you: I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t. The Carsons and most folks at the circus, they took care of me –they helped me best they could. I wouldn’t repay them like that, Phil, honest, I wouldn’t, I swear.”

Phil’s eyebrows raised, more with each statement, until he felt like they might fly off his forehead, and out the window by the time Clint finished speaking, his voice speeding up faster and faster, before he dropped in the chair, elbows on his knees.

“It wasn’t me, Phil. I didn’t do it.”

“I’m… I’m not sure we’re on the same page here, Clint,” Phil said, feeling his unease grow into something far worse. Clint thought they were talking about something they thought _he’d_ done. The poor kid had no idea the bomb they were about to drop on him. “I… Well, we…” For the first time in six years, Phil found himself at a loss for words, and he looked desperately at Patricia.

Luckily, she took the reins, sitting forward in the chair, and she set her hands on the file on the desk.

“Clint, we’re not talking about the theft. This file is from St. Mary’s hospital in Casper, Wyoming,” She said gently. “When you were found in the field. It was after that that you dropped off the map. According to this file, after they placed you in the recovery home, you disappeared a week later, like you’d been swallowed in a void until you popped up as an assassin for hire a year later.”

“I… There was an accident. At the circus. With my… mentor. He thought… thought he’d killed me by accident. He didn’t want to be arrested for… for negligent homicide, so he left me in a field,” Clint said, his voice striving for casual, but the slight edge didn’t escape Phil or Patricia’s notice.

Patricia sighed, leaning back in the chair, and opening the file. She made a show of reading through it as she spoke, but Phil knew she was using her eidetic memory to recite the passages, and she was actually watching Clint’s face.

“ ‘John Doe was stabbed sixteen times, shot twice, and was badly beaten,’ “ She stated, her gaze turning sharp as she stared at Clint. “What kind of accident involves knives, guns, fists, and a fourteen year old boy? The only accident I can see there is that you _accidentally_ survived something that no child should have had to survive.”

 “Why does this matter?” Clint demanded, looking over at Phil, ignoring Patricia. “It was nothing illegal -nothin’ you can prove anyways –and I didn’t do anything wrong. So I don’t see what there is to talk about.”

Phil sighed, wishing he was anywhere else. “Because… this isn’t a ‘should you be in jail’ issue, Clint. This is a ‘can you be put in the field without having a traumatic recurrence’ issue. We can’t put you out in the field if we think it might cause you mental stress, or inflict mental suffering.”

The look on Clint’s face was incredulous. “ ‘Mental stress’? All due respect, sir –“ And Phil noted the swift change from ‘Phil’ to ‘sir’ “-but I’ve been in the ‘field’ for seven years. I’ve never cracked up, fallen apart, started crying, or watching Titanic at any point –and even if I did, I would still finish the mission. I’ve _never_ failed to complete, sir.”

“We’re not worried about ‘completing’, Barton, we’re worried about _you_ ,” Patricia interrupted sharply, throwing the file back on the desk. “You’re twenty years old, and you’re carrying more baggage than men three times your age. I don’t know what you’ve been to other folks in your life, but here, you’re more than just a weapon. We want _you_ , Clint Barton, the person, to be healthy -mentally and emotionally. Hell, why do you think we’ve been having therapy sessions?”

Taking a deep breath, Patricia leaned forward in the chair. “We’ve seen the whole file, Clint. All of it. And some of the things in there are pretty bad, Clint. Things that –“

“Should never happen, people suck, yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Clint interrupted sharply. “Look… It sucked. I nearly died. I didn’t. I lived. Moved on. Killed some people for doing it. Closure, and all that, right? You head-shrinks are big on that, right? I’m fine.”

“Really? You’re fine,” Patricia said sharply, picking up the file again. “ ‘John Doe’s body shows signs of long term physical and sexual abuse’. ‘He shows classic psychological signs of being abused’. ‘Dislikes being in the presence of men’.”

“Stop it.”

“ ‘The abuse has been on-going for a period of at least 4 or more years’. ‘Clint’ frequently cries out in his sleep, naming ‘Barney’, and ‘Buck’ repeatedly’. ‘Clint dislikes being touched by anyone, but reacts particularly badly with males’.”

“I said, stop it.” Clint’s voice was quiet, but the edge there made Phil hold up his hand, indicating Patricia to stop.

“Clint… We’re trying to help you,” Phil said, trying to sooth the tempers flying in the room. “Because with everything in that file… Hell, I’d be more concerned if you were fine. There’s nothing wrong with getting some of this stuff off your chest. Talking about it. Getting it out in the open. Because there’s nobody who goes through the things written in that file, and walks out the other side a normal, well-adjusted, high-functioning human being.”

The look Clint gave him was frightening. It reminded him of the look he’d given Nick in their first meeting, like he was moments away from killing every living thing in the room.

“You didn’t hire me to be ‘well-adjusted’. You didn’t want somebody ‘high-functioning’. You wanted a trained sniper, who could kill people two miles away without breaking a sweat. You wanted someone who could put an arrow through the heart of everybody in a room in under a minute. And that's what you got. You don't like how you got it, you can take me back to Attica, and find yourself somebody else."


End file.
